PRINCE’S HOT CHICKEN SHACK
Nashville
Hot Chicken Shack will not win any for interior design. Not that it could care as it serves up the best hot fried chicken in
The Dolly Parton of deep fried poultry, no And by hot, I mean cayenne hot, blow-yourfilthy. If you so desire. The birds are
in buttermilk, then dredged in cayenne flour of varying heats, then deep fried in and battered iron skillets.
on the edge of a glum shopping parade, of the less salubrious parts of town, Prince’s
perfecting its art since 1945. The floor is in tatty lino, a TV blares in the corner and the decoration a few tattered posters for concerts past. You join the queue (and there’s always eue), and order your chicken (whole, half, leg
through a small hatch, choose your heat plain to XXX Hot), then sit back and wait. Fifteen minutes later and your name is called. The burnished bird (golden in its mild incarnation, black as Satan’s soul at XXX) sits atop two slices of Mighty White bread, stained red with cayenne, and topped with a couple of pickles. The crust is thick and crisp, the flesh impossibly succulent, gushing sweet juice. Go for medium-hot if you want to actually taste anything for the next few hours and not have your tongue transformed into a useless mass of throbbing gristle. Which is just one of the effects of the peerless XXX. This bastard’s a builder, creeping and growing until tears stream down your face, and even thinking hurts. “It ain’t chattin’ food,” I was once told by former mayor of Nashville Bill Purcell, a huge fan. He was right, but Prince’s still serves up some of the best damn fried chicken I’ve ever eaten in my life.